the fist becomes a flower
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: Muggle!au:: Draco has maybe gotten in over his head after joining Tom Riddle's gang to redeem his father's name. Maybe there's hope for him. Maybe an unlikely tattoo artist can help him find his way:: PercyDraco for Grace


For Grace, via Secret Santa. PercyDraco, tattoo artist!au

Warnings for mentions of gang activity and some strong language

Word Count: 7459

i. now

Percy checks the outline, studying it carefully. This is hardly his first coverup tattoo, but he thinks it might be the most challenging. The skull and serpent upon Draco's forearm is dark and large, and it will take some time to transform into something beautiful, something to hide the reminder of the younger man's ugly past.

"Too much for you, Weasley?" Draco teases, arching a pale brow as his lips quirk into a grin.

Percy rolls his eyes and picks up the tattoo gun. "You?" he asks, his tone just as teasing. "Or the tattoo?"

Draco tips his head to the side, seemingly losing himself in thought for several seconds. He shrugs. "Both."

With a snort, Percy shakes his head. "Not too much." The tattoo gun buzzes to life. "Just enough."

ii. then

The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, and fear causes Draco's heartbeat to quicken. It isn't that he's afraid of the pain. Tattoos hurt; that is just a fact of life.

It's the fear of commitment, of not being one hundred percent if he's sure that he wants this life. This isn't just a regular tattoo, and Uncle Rodolphus isn't your friendly neighborhood tattoo artist. After immense pressure, Draco has decided to follow in his father's footsteps and join the Death Eaters. The initiation to get into the gang has been hell, and this is his reward for it: a tattoo done in his aunt and uncle's garage with the gang leader watching him.

It's more than that, he tells himself. It's family. It's belonging.

But he isn't sure that he wants to belong here. Once, he had idolized his father. He had seen the way his father's wealth and influence opened every door imaginable, how everyone would look at Lucius Malfoy with respect. Once, Draco had wanted that. The power, the notoriety, the money. What boy wouldn't want to grow up to be just like their father?

He doesn't remember exactly when he became disillusioned, only that one day he realized exactly what his father does. That money is dirty. Those looks of respect are laced with palpable fear.

By that time, it was too late. He had gotten swept up in it until there was mounting pressure to join and no way to refuse. His father's arrest was his breaking point. Once his father's mugshot was plastered all over the news, Draco knew he didn't have a choice. He would be just like his father because he had to fix the man's mistakes.

The tattoo needle bites into his skin, and Draco inhales sharply. It isn't as bad as he had imagined it would be; it stings, but it's more discomfort than pain.

"I'm so proud of you, Draco," Aunt Bellatrix says, resting her hand on his shoulder. "I knew you would do the right thing."

The right thing. The words make him want to laugh. There was a certain irony in becoming a criminal being considered the right thing. Shouldn't aunts be proud of their nephews for getting good grades or making the rugby team? Not this.

But Draco doesn't voice his concerns. Instead, he just smiles because that's what he's supposed to do. He doesn't have his own thoughts anymore; what he wants no longer matters. He is a Death Eater now, another pawn in Tom Riddle's endless game of chess.

His eyes flicker toward his arm. The needle continues its path along his skin, leaving behind glistening ink and beads of blood. He closes his eyes and leans back. It will all be over soon.

Except it won't. Not really. Even when this moment passes, the tattoo will remain. The commitment will still be there.

No turning back now.

…

Uncle Rodolphus wipes Draco's arm, leaving streaks of black and scarlet across his pale skin. Another swipe of the paper towel wipes away the last of the mess, revealing the finished product. The skin around the mark is pink and puffy, and he can feel a soft heat radiating from it.

"The healing is the worst part," his uncle's brother, Rabastan tells him, offering him a grin. "Just don't scratch it."

Draco mutters a quick thanks under his breath before pulling his jacket on. The material rubs against the fresh tattoo, and he winces and tries to adjust the sleeve.

"Keep it clean," Uncle Rodolphus says, tucking a cigarette between his lips and lighting up. "Infections aren't very fun."

"Right."

Aunt Bellatrix moves to stand before him. She grips his shoulders, slender fingers leaving bruises in their wake. "Your father would be proud of you," she says, laughing and shaking him gently. "I was afraid you would be like your mother. I love my sister, but she is too soft."

Draco bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't want to hear a negative word about his mother. She is part of the reason he's doing this. His father left them with no protection; he needs to know that his mother will be safe.

"Your father is a bit soft too," Aunt Bellatrix says, pursing her lips. "But you… You are something different, aren't you?"

He nods because he doesn't know what else to say or do. "I really should get going." He pulls out of her grip. "Mother will worry."

His aunt laughs before making cooing noises, like she's entertaining a baby. "Run along bitty one," she tells him. "Can't have Mummy dear worrying, can we?"

Draco's cheeks heat with color, but he doesn't dignify that with a response. He simply nods and turns his back, walking away. Out on the street, he exhales heavily.

The world seems different now. He knows nothing has changed since going into his aunt's house. The town is still covered in the same snow. The same cars still drive along the road. Kids run and laugh in the same park.

But it seems like everything has changed. The skies are a little greyer, a little more grim. The laughter in the park is muted, like the joy has been taken away. Does the world somehow know that Draco's life has changed forever?

He shakes his head. He's being ridiculous. The universe doesn't care about him. In the grand scheme of things, he is insignificant.

Hands trembling, he plucks a cigarette from the pack tucked away in his shirt pocket and fits the filter between his lips. A soft breeze picks up. Draco ducks his head against it, lighting his cigarette and inhaling. The menthol coupled with the chill of the winter air stings his lungs, but Draco welcomes the pain. It is a subtle reminder that he is still here, that this isn't some wild dream.

He exhales, smoke coming out of his mouth. There's no point in dwelling on. What's done is done. This is his life now, and there's nothing he can do about it.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, Draco adjusts the collar of his coat and makes his way up the road.

iii. now

Percy adjusts his glasses, sliding them back into position. The last thing he needs is to do this blindly. Penelope, his ex-girlfriend and the owner of Pen's Ink, keeps telling him to abandon the glasses and try contact lenses. Percy sometimes considers it, but he likes his glasses too much.

"Can't you hurry?" Draco groans impatiently. "I'm hungry."

Percy raises his brows. "First of all, never rush a tattoo artist. That's what leads to poor work."

Draco snorts. "And we all know you are a perfectionist," he says.

Percy doesn't respond, but the corners of his lips twitch in amusement. He wouldn't call himself a perfectionist; he just likes things to be nice and proper.

"Second of all, why didn't you eat before coming in?"

Draco shrugs. "Didn't think about it."

"You're stressing your body out." Percy adjusts his glasses again. "And your boyfriend. I am also very stressed out. Always eat a little something before getting a tattoo. That's rule one."

"I thought rule one was to go to a professional," Draco quips.

Percy chuckles. "Tell you what," he says. "I'll order some Chinese. We'll take a quick break for lunch. Sound fair?"

Truthfully, he would rather not let Draco have an extended break. He knows breaks can be tricky, but he also knows that getting tattooed on an empty stomach is a risk. Besides, it will be easier to deal with Draco if he's full and not pouting.

"Sounds like a plan."

iv. then

Things did not go according to plan. Draco runs to the kitchen, hunching over the sink and heaving, his lunch threatening to come back up.

He knew it would be like this. Despite everything, he always knew. Gangs aren't happy groups who get together and ponder how to make the world a better place. They are dark and twisted and vicious, and now Draco has seen firsthand how fucked up it really is.

"Get yourself together." Aunt Bellatrix appears at his side. Her delicate, pale hands are stained with blood, and she doesn't seem to care at all. Is this normal to her? Just another day, nothing out of the ordinary? "And don't throw up. The last thing you want is to leave easy evidence for the cops."

Draco swallows dryly. "I wasn't going to," he says, though it's so painfully obvious that it's a lie.

His aunt smirks and reaches out, patting his cheek. He can feel the warm stickiness of the blood cling to his skin. "Of course you weren't."

His stomach still churns, and the acid snakes its way up his esophagus. Draco swallows again. He will not throw up. He can't.

He opens his mouth, a question on the tip of his tongue. Does it ever get easier? But he doesn't dare to ask her. According to his mother, Aunt Bellatrix has always been unhinged. His mother would never go into detail, but she would always shudder and thank God that she never followed in her eldest sister's footsteps.

"Hurry up," she snaps before turning on her heel and stalking off.

Draco takes a deep breath. He can do this. Besides, it isn't like he actually killed the woman who lived there. He's only here to see how it's done, to study, to learn his aunt's techniques. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And yet it feels like so much more. Tears sting his eyes, and he quickly wipes them away. He chose this life. Maybe he didn't have much of a choice, but he still chose. He has no right to regret it now.

"Draco!" Aunt Bellatrix calls. "I told you to hurry!"

With a sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose. He needs a drink.

…

The Hog's Head is mostly empty. It's why he prefers it to the other bars and pubs across Britain. It's one of the few places where he truly feels like he can escape, like the rest of the world doesn't really exist.

He lights a cigarette and inhales, the smoke soothing his restless mind.

"Long day?"

The man beside him is tall and thin with freckled skin and messy red curls. He adjusts his glasses, offering Draco a smile.

Draco doesn't answer. He hates small talk, and this man is a complete stranger. How dare he disturb Draco's peace and quiet?

The man chuckles nervously. "Sorry. You just looked stress." He gestures toward Aberforth. "Elderberry wine, Abe."

"Already ready, Percy," the old bartender says with a chuckle as he hands Percy a glass.

"That sounds disgusting," Draco says, wrinkling his nose. "Men don't drink wine."

Percy's eyes twinkle with amusement. He lifts the glass, swirling the contents within and breathing in the aroma. A smile tugs at his lips. "And what are you drinking? Let me guess. Scotch? Something you think is somehow more masculine than wine because apparently alcohol can be gendered now?"

Draco blushes. He is, in fact, nursing a glass of Scotch, and it isn't because he likes the taste. It tastes like medicine and smoke, and it burns all the way to his stomach. He drinks it anyway. It's what his father always drank, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. Malfoys are real men, and real men drink Scotch.

"Percy Weasley," he says.

Draco remains silent. He doesn't like it when people talk to him. Though he was always popular in school, he never really learned how to do the whole people thing. People only care about him because of his name, not who he is. At the end of the day, he doesn't know how to make friends.

Not that he wants to be Percy Weasley's friend. He can't afford to get attached to anyone. The more people he has in his life, the more ways he can be controlled.

"Right. Strong, silent type." Percy shrugs and reaches into his coat pocket, setting a business card on the bar. "My brothers say I should take chances and maybe remove the stick my arse. So, if you ever want to try wine or something…"

He lets the sentence hang in the air for several seconds before shrugging again. He adjusts his glasses and rises to his feet, moving along and taking his wine with him.

Draco examines the card curiously.

Pen's Ink Tattoo Studio

Percy Weasley, tattoo artist and piercer

Draco laughs. Percy hadn't looked anything like a tattoo artist. Tattoo artists are supposed to be covered in ink with metal all over their faces and bodies. The redhead had seemed quite plain. Handsome, but plain.

Draco shakes his head. It doesn't matter if Percy Weasley is handsome or not. He isn't supposed to care because connections are dangerous.

He knocks back the last of his Scotch in a single gulp and signals for another.

v. now

Percy barely even notices his food. His eyes remain fixed on Draco's arm. The skin has begun to swell, and he worries it might make the tattoo process more difficult. Longer breaks can complicate things and make it harder for the lines to match up.

But he knows how much this coverup means to Draco. It's why he's here on a Sunday when the shop is closed. Penelope had assured him that he could do it whenever, that she didn't mind. Percy had chosen Sunday for the privacy, because he knows Draco is still struggling to make peace with his past and accept that he has grown into a better man.

"Did you hear a word I said?" Draco asks with a roll of his eyes. "Honestly, Weasley."

Percy grins, chuckling softly. "Sorry. Must have been lost in thought for a bit."

Draco laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah. Sounds like you," he says, his tone teasing and affectionate. "I asked how much of it you think you can get done today."

"Depends on how your body responds to it," Percy answers. "I've had people sit for hours on end. I've also had people who had to call it quits after getting the outline done."

Draco nods, his gaze dropping to the tattoo on his forearm. The skull and serpent are still there. All that has changed is the beginning of the outline, the subtle hints of how the original tattoo will morph into something greater, something worthy of being on Draco's skin.

"Thank you," Draco whispers before setting his empty takeaway container aside. "Back at it, then?"

Percy nods and guides Draco back to the chair.

vi. then

Draco sits in his father's office chair, breathing in the stale, dusty air. Neither he nor his mother have stepped foot in the office since his father's arrest. Draco isn't sure what draws him to it now, but there's something comforting about it.

How many times did his father meet with other Death Eaters here? How much business went on behind those heavy oak doors? Draco can so clearly imagine his father meeting with the leader, Tom Riddle, and reporting to him. His father hadn't been a common thug. He had been important, someone on the inside who could sway the politicians and pay off the police.

Draco wonders if his father would be proud of him. He remembers being a kid and telling his father how much he wanted to be like him when he grew up. His father would never smile at that or offer him words of encouragement. Instead, he would just wave Draco away and tell him to go play.

Draco sits up a little straighter. He has big shoes to fill, and he doesn't think he's doing a very good job of it. Still, he keeps trying. He doesn't have a choice; failure is not an option.

The door cracks open, and his mother steps inside, smiling sadly. Her eyes flicker to his forearm, but the tattoo is hidden behind long sleeves. He never told her, but Draco is sure that she must know, or at least suspect.

"You look just like Lucius," she tells him, and he can hear the longing in her voice.

He doesn't understand why she misses him so much. Maybe she actually does love his father, though Draco can't imagine why. His father was always so cold, so distant. In the end, he ultimately chose the Death Eaters over his own family.

That's part of gang life. Draco understands that now. It doesn't change anything, though. He can still feel those tendrils of resentment snaking their way through his brain.

He would never dare to say anything about it to his mother. Instead, he just smiles. "How are you feeling, Mother?" he asks. "Not having headaches again?"

He isn't sure if it's actually a physical ailment that keeps his mother confined to their manor, or she cannot stand the negative attention. Whatever the reason, Draco feels even more compelled to protect her.

"I'll be fine," she tells him. Again, her gaze lingers on his arm. "Are you going out tonight?" He can hear the tension her question; she is walking on eggshells.

"I think I might go see a film."

It's a lie. He hates the theater. There's something unnerving about sitting in the dark, surrounded by strangers. Besides, the floor always seems sticky.

He does want to get out, though. His fingers move to his jacket pocket. Percy Weasley's business card is still there, and he can't seem to ignore the call.

"I hope you have a nice night," his mother says. "Be sure to ring me if you're going to be late coming in. You know I'll be up all night worrying."

She will worry, regardless. Draco thinks it's the only thing she's done since the arrest, and it had really taken its toll on her.

There isn't much that he can do, but he will do whatever it takes to keep her safe.

…

Pen's Ink doesn't look like any tattoo parlor Draco has ever seen before. He imagines tattoo parlors to be dark, covered with skulls and edgy artwork. Instead, this one has a cozy feel to it, almost like a coffee shop, or a library. Pen's Ink seems fitting enough.

"Do you have an appointment?" A young woman with curls to her waist steps behind the front desk, flipping open a notebook.

"I… No."

She frowns. "I have a client coming in about half an hour, so I can't take a walk-in," she tells him. "Well, I can if you just want a piercing."

"No. I'm not here to get anything done," Draco says. His cheeks flush with heat. Why did he even come here?

"If you would like a consultation, let me know your preferred artist," she says.

"I'm… I think I should go." Draco turns on his heel and starts toward the door.

"Mr. Strong and Silent!"

He hates the way his heart flutters in his chest at that voice. It's so stupid. Still, he finds himself turning again. Percy stands in the doorway, grinning.

"Draco," Draco corrects. "Draco Malfoy."

Percy nods. "I don't have any more clients scheduled for the next hour, do I, Penny?"

The woman shakes her head. "Go ahead and get a bite," she says. "Just remember you have that bloke with the wolf tattoo at six."

Percy salutes her before turning his attention to Draco. "Dinner?"

Draco should tell him know. Connections are dangerous; saying yes is dangerous. But he can't seem to bring himself to care. "I'd like that."

…

Percy tells him about his time working for the Prime Minister before uncovering the corruption.

"I couldn't stay." He shrugs, dipping his chip into ketchup. "I used to have dreams of being the next Prime Minister, but how could I just turn a blind eye to that?"

Draco looks down at his burger. It sounds too familiar. He had wanted to be like his father until he was given the chance. Now, he wants to escape like Percy did. The only difference is that escaping the Death Eaters is impossible. The only way out is in a body bag.

"I considered going into teaching," Percy continues. "Always was good at that sort of thing. Penelope—you met her earlier—roped me into her plan to start a tattoo shop." He laughs nervously and adjusts his glasses, though they are already perfectly straight. "Not the sort of thing I would usually do. My brother, Charlie, seems more the type. Maybe Bill. But not me. Not Percy, the old stick in the mud."

Draco likes listening to Percy talk. Usually, he hates rambling. Somehow, when Percy does it, he doesn't mind at all.

"What about you?" Percy asks. "What do you do?"

Draco considers for a moment, suddenly uncomfortable. He can't tell the truth, but he isn't quick enough to tell a convincing lie. For several moments, he just stares at Percy, mouth opening and closing without a word.

"I should go." Draco rushes to his feet and pulls out his wallet. He drops a bill on the table; it's enough to cover both their meals.

Coming here was a mistake. He shouldn't have thought he could have some semblance of normalcy. Percy calls after him, but Draco doesn't stop. He walks out, his heart pounding in his chest.

He really is an idiot.

vii. now

Percy narrows his eyes, studying the line as he moves the needle over Draco's skin. Draco remains stoic through it all, as though it is little more than a lover's gentle caress.

"With all due respect to your uncle," Percy murmurs, "his shading leaves much to be desired."

"If I happen to write to him, I will be sure to tell him as much," Draco says dryly.

"Tell him I am quite cross with him. It makes my job more difficult when I'm working with such poor quality for a foundation."

Draco laughs. "Right. Because that's what Death Eaters were known for: their top-dollar tattoos."

Percy finds himself grinning as he adds more ink to Draco's porcelain skin. Slowly but surely, the tattoo is coming together. The skull and serpent are still visible, but they are gradually blending into the new design.

"I can stop if you'd like," Percy tells him. "The body is only meant to handle so much."

He's seen the results of pushing the body too far. One client, after sitting for three hours, called him in a panic. Her limits had been reached, and her tattoo had begun to leak plasma.

"Keep going."

"As you wish." Percy adjusts his glasses and resumes his work.

viii. then

Draco is meant to be working. It's a nice enough thought, but it's easier said than done. Getting his father's company back off the ground has proven to be a headache of a task. Reputation means so much, and the Malfoy name has been dragged through the mud.

He stares at the files, groaning in frustration. It isn't fair; he doesn't know anything about business. Why has yet another burden been placed upon his shoulders? It's too much, and he's afraid it might crush him.

"Draco, darling, someone is here to see you," his mother calls.

He looks up, head tilting curiously to the side. He isn't expecting anyone. No Death Eater would ever show up unannounced, and his friends from school have long since lost touch. He's about to shout back that he's busy, but the door opens. Percy Weasley steps inside, a dark blush swallowing up his freckles.

"Not the most common surname," Percy notes.

Draco's traitorous heart skips a beat. Maybe there's a part of him that had hoped to see Percy again, despite it all. He can't express his joy. Instead, he sighs, absently gesturing at the seat across from him. Percy takes it.

"Did I do something wrong the other night?" Percy asks. "You left so quickly…"

"And you didn't take the hint." Draco tries to keep his tone cold and sharp, but Percy doesn't even flinch. Does he see right through him.

"Call me crazy, but I felt something, and I think you felt it too."

Draco tries to shake his head, but the motion is feeble and unconvincing. "I'm not good for you."

Percy snorts, eyes rolling. He's clearly unimpressed by the protest. "Spare me the young adult romance cliches," he says. "So you're a rich bad boy whose dad is in jail. I've read this book before."

"I'm not a fucking book," Draco snaps. "I'm not some tragic idiot, and I don't expect you to save me."

"So, why are you running?"

Draco doesn't even think. He pulls his jacket off and jerks his sleeve up, revealing the tattoo he always keeps so carefully hidden. It's the first time he's shown anyone outside the Death Eaters. It should feel like a mistake, but there is something strangely liberating about it.

"I'm not good for you," Draco says again, his words quiet and strained.

Percy studies the skull and serpent in silence. If it concerns him, he doesn't admit it. Instead, he just moves closer, tracing a long, delicate finger over the black ink. Draco shivers at the touch. He can't remember the last time he's let anyone touch him so gently.

"Is this supposed to scare me away?" Percy asks.

"It would if you were smart," Draco says.

Percy laughs. "I'm quite intelligent, actually," he says. "But here I am, and I am not going anywhere. Got it?"

Maybe Draco should try harder to push him away. He genuinely likes Percy, and he doesn't want to take any risks or put him in danger.

He can't bring himself to do it. Instead, he reaches up, hands trembling with nervousness. His breathing becomes uneven as he cups Percy's face gently and stands on his tiptoes, pressing a kiss to the older man's lips.

"I owe you dinner," Percy says. "You paid last time, so it's my turn."

Draco nods. "I'd like that."

…

Less than a week after kissing Percy Weasley for the first time, Uncle Rodolphus finds him outside the manor, walking along the stone path and admiring the hints of green poking out beneath the blanket of snow. Percy has given him a new lease on life. Suddenly the world seems a little brighter, and like everything will be okay.

Except, judging by the look in his uncle's eyes, Draco thinks that maybe it won't actually be okay. He stands still, straightening his back a little more like a soldier suddenly facing a commanding officer. "Uncle Rodolphus," he says politely.

Uncle Rodolphus nods and fishes a cigarette from his pocket. "Got a light, kid?"

Draco nods and hands his uncle his lighter. "I take it this isn't a social call," he says. "Unless you just couldn't find a lighter at the house."

Uncle Rodolphus doesn't laugh. He rarely does. Instead, he exhales a puff of smoke. "The boss wants to see you."

The boss. He hasn't actually met Tom Riddle yet. He remembers seeing Tom in the hallways of the manor, always hidden in the shadows and following Draco's father into his office.

Tom Riddle has stayed out of the public eye for so long; his name has been whispered with fear, like some sort of bogeyman. If he's honest, Draco has sometimes wondered if the man still exists at all. He is as enigmatic as his surname suggests.

"You mean Aunt Bellatrix, right?" Draco asks, and there's a quiver in his voice.

Aunt Bellatrix is Tom Riddle's lieutenant. She's just as active as every other member because she's fueled by her bloodlust, but she is so much more than a common grunt. Anyone who doesn't know better might mistake for the head of the Death Eaters.

Uncle Rodolphus laughs and takes another drag. "Bella." He grins and Pat's Draco's cheek. "You're cute, kid."

Draco gulps. "Right," he says with a nervous laugh. "You know me. Such a jokester."

His uncle's expression becomes stony and unreadable. He gestures. "Let's go," he says. "The boss doesn't like to be kept waiting."

…

The Riddle home in Little Hangleton might have once been beautiful. It appears to have been left to decay, and now it looks like little more than a pitiful shell of what it could have been. Uncle Rodolphus leads him to the front door but doesn't step inside. A man with straw-blond hair appears at the door, his wild eyes moving over Draco's body; he grins wickedly.

"Baby Malfoy," he says, flicking his tongue over his lips like a snake. "All grown up now, aren't you? How precious."

"He has business with the boss, Barty," Uncle Rodolphus tells him.

Barty rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand. "I know that, you moron. Who do you think contacted your wife? Scurry off, little Rodolphus. Shoo!"

Draco has never felt any strong attachment to his uncle, but he finds himself wishing Uncle Rodolphus wouldn't leave. Maybe he would tell Barty to sod off, that Draco is family and he will be damned if he turns his back on his family. He doesn't. He just lights another cigarette, mutters that he will be in the car, and walks away.

Hesitantly, Draco follows Barty inside. The interior is just as rundown as the outside. The wallpaper is peeling, windows have been busted, and everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Draco's nose wrinkles in disgust, but he doesn't say anything. The last thing he needs is to insult the boss in his own home.

They reach a door at the end of a long hallway. Barty knocks. "The kid is here," he calls.

The kid. Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. While he may be young, he is hardly a kid.

"You may enter." The voice on the other side is chilling and makes Draco's hair stand on end.

Barty opens the door. The air in the office smells like mildew, and the scent sours Draco's stomach. A man with cold, dark eyes sits behind a polished mahogany desk. He must have been handsome once, but the years have stripped him of his good looks.

"Draco Malfoy," Tom says, offering him a toothy grin. It doesn't make him look warm and welcoming; if anything, the upward turn of his lips makes him appear predatory, like he might devour Draco in one quick bite. "I'm sure your father must be proud of you."

Draco shifts uncomfortably. "I haven't spoken to my father since…" He clears his throat and adjusts the collar of his shirt.

"Just as well. Your father was a good man, but he was so terribly sloppy," Tom muses as he pulls out a bottle of Scotch from one of the drawers. "Care for a drink?"

Draco bites the inside of his cheek. "Got any wine?"

The older man says nothing. Draco accepts a glass of Scotch.

"Your father was smart. One thing that can be said of Lucius is that he never betrayed me." Tom lifts his glass to his lips, taking a sip. "Well, not deliberately. But such sloppy work. They were able to find connections to some of my higher-ups. Quite a nasty ordeal. Do sit down, Draco."

Draco does as he's told, though he would rather bolt from the room. "My father was loyal to you," he says, and he is grateful that his voice doesn't betray his emotions.

Tom laughs. "No one is denying that. It wasn't him. It was his carelessness," he says. "But that's where you come in, Draco. One little job, and everything will be square."

"What's the job?"

Tom grins at that. He leans back in his chair, studying Draco. "A hit."

Draco doesn't like the sound of that. He has accompanied others and helped them search for things or clean messes. He isn't a gunman; the very thought of being the one to pull the trigger makes him feel sick to his stomach.

"Who?" he asks.

Tom's grin broadens, filling Draco with an overwhelming sense of dread. "Albus Dumbledore."

Draco's heart sinks to his stomach. Albus Dumbledore has been in the papers a lot lately. Word on the street says he's a crowd favorite for becoming the next Prime Minister, and Draco can understand why. Dumbledore heads a special taskforce that is designed to keep the country safe. One of the Order of the Phoenix's top priorities has been to take down crime families. Their constant attack on the Death Eaters almost feels like another gang war.

Draco waits for his boss to laugh. No one in their right mind would go after someone like Albus Dumbledore. To ask a rookie to do it had to be a joke.

But Tom isn't grinning anymore. His expression is deadly serious as he leans in and sets his glass on the desk. "I'm not asking, Draco," he says. "Just to be clear, this is your job."

Draco opens his mouth, but no words come out. What can he even say to this? He snaps his mouth shut and nods.

"And just so you know, any job you do for me, you do alone. I don't need two roads that lead back to me."

"Understood," Draco says quietly.

"Good. Now, finish your drink and get out."

ix. now

Draco is tough. In the years that Percy has been doing this, he's seen strong people struggle to sit for more than an hour and a half. Draco, however, remains stoic. Ever so often, he might wince or inhale sharply, but, for the most part, he has been perfectly statuesque.

The outline is long since done, and the details and shading are coming together nicely. They might be able to finish this in one sitting.

"You're cute when you work," Draco says. "You look so focused."

Percy laughs as he wipes away some ink. "I am focused. You would be in real trouble if you had an artist who didn't focus on what they were doing," he says teasingly.

"Take the compliment."

Percy looks up and offers his boyfriend a smile. "I'm glad you appreciate how focused I am," he says.

Draco offers him a look that is somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "Much better," he says before falling quiet again.

Percy has so many questions he wants to ask Draco, so much he wants to say. Draco doesn't seem interested in talking. His expression has already shifted, and he has a faraway look in his pale eyes. With a shrug, Percy gets back to work, carefully guiding the needle along and shading where needed.

It has been a time-consuming process, but he knows it will be worth it.

x. then

None of it is worth it. Draco almost laughs as he paces the length of his father's old office. They hadn't pressured him because they wanted him to join; this was never about him restoring his family's honor. Tom wants to use him as a way to punish Draco's father even further.

Why else would Tom give him this sort of job? Performing hits is something higher-ranking members do because it takes care and consideration. Inexperienced members will end up in prison or in the graveyard.

He was always supposed to take the fall. He should have realized it, but he had been so caught up in trying to make things right.

"Stupid" he screams, curling his fingers inward and slamming his fist against the wall. He does it again and again, until he feels the skin over his knuckles split.

With a defeated cry, he drops to the floor and draws his knees to his chest. He shouldn't have done this. He shouldn't have given in.

But what good would that have done? Tom would have still come for him, and maybe even his mother if it meant making his father suffer. At least his mother is safe.

For now, the voice in his head whispers. But what's going to happen when you fail? What's going to happen when you are no longer around to keep her safe?

He wants to believe his aunt will keep her safe. At the end of the day, they are still sisters, and that has to count for something. She won't, though. Aunt Bellatrix's first priority is serving their boss.

Trembling, he pulls himself up and dusts himself off, sucking in deep breath after deep breath. His mother will never truly be safe, and neither will he.

He knows what he has to do, but he is terrified.

…

Percy is locking up the studio when Draco finds him. The older man greets him with a smile that quickly fades into an expression of concern. "Draco?" He slips his key into his pocket. "What's wrong?"

Draco looks around as though he expects Death Eaters to be around the corner, spying on him and waiting to strike. Maybe they are. He may not be important, but his task certainly is.

"Draco?"

Draco shakes his head. "Not here," he says. "Can we go back to your place?"

Without a word, Percy nods and gestures for Draco to follow. Neither speak as they make the trek through the snowy city streets. It should be a peaceful walk, but Draco cannot relax. Each car that passes makes him hold his breath. The few people outside this late all look menacing, like they might be there to kill him if his tongue gets a little too loose.

Percy doesn't live too far from the tattoo shop. They're at his place in less than twenty minutes. "Sorry for the mess," Percy tells him. "I wasn't expecting company."

Draco doesn't know what mess Percy is talking about. Maybe he means the newspaper that was left on the coffee table, or the single plate beside it. If that's his definition of messy, Percy would probably hate to see the office Draco trashed in frustration.

"Would you like a drink?" Percy asks. "I can put the kettle on."

Draco shakes his head. "No… I just…" He can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

Percy moves closer but still keeps a safe distance. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Draco removes his jacket, carefully folding it and draping it over the back of the nearest chair. His tattoo is exposed. He still finds himself waiting for Percy to push him away, but he doesn't.

Taking a deep breath, Draco closes his eyes. He wants to keep this inside, to not have to worry about getting caught up in this. But he can't. Not anymore. He needs help, and Percy is the only one he can trust.

The words spill from his lips like a dam breaking. He talks about Tom Riddle and his impossible task. He admits his fear. Every little ounce of pain comes out, and by the end of it, Draco finds himself wiping the tears from his eyes.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" Draco concludes, collapsing into the nearest chair because everything suddenly feels so heavy, and he no longer trusts his legs to hold him up.

Percy closes the distance between them and pulls Draco back to his feet and into a tight hug. It's the first time Draco has truly felt safe and warm in what feels like forever. Truth be told, he didn't even realize he needed this until now.

"There is a way to be safe," Percy tells him. "You know, my parents know Dumbledore. Dad is a Phoenix, actually."

The color drains from Draco's face. "But I'm a Death Eater," he says.

"You're human." Percy takes a step back, chuckling. "I wasn't going to rat you out."

"What do I do?"

Percy kisses Draco's forehead before sighing. "You aren't going to like it."

"I don't care," Draco assures him. "I'll do anything."

…

Percy is right. Draco absolutely hates what he's doing.

"To the rest of the world, you are just coming to dinner to meet your boyfriend's parents," Percy says, adjusting Draco's crooked tie. "Nothing unusual at all."

Except there is nothing at all usual about this. On the surface, it may seem like an ordinary dinner, but they both know the truth.

The door opens, and a plump woman with red hair and a bright smile stands before them. "You must be Draco," she says, wrapping her arms around him. She smells like freshly baked bread and spices, and her hug feels like the warmest, softest blanket in the world. "I'm Molly. Percy has told us all about you!"

A man appears. His red hair is thinning, and his face is etched with lines, but he looks so much like Percy that it's easy enough to guess who he is. "Arthur Weasley," Arthur says, offering him an excited grin as he shakes Draco's hand. "Very nice to meet you. Come on in. I was just setting the table."

"My siblings wanted to come," Percy tells him as they follow Arthur into the dining room, "but it's hard to have a private meeting when you have an extra six people."

"You have seven siblings?" Draco asks, stunned by this revelation.

"Mum really wanted a girl," Percy says, and Draco can't tell if he's joking or not.

A man is already seated at the table. Unlike the Weasleys, he does not have red hair. Maybe it had been in his youth, but both the long hair on his head and his long beard have gone white with age. His blue eyes twinkle as he offers Draco a smile.

Albus Dumbledore looks more like a wizard than a potential Prime Minister.

Draco sits next to the old man, and he can't help but feel uneasy. This is the man who Tom Riddle has set him up to kill. It seems strange that this meeting should happen.

"Percy tells us that you were coerced into joining the Death Eaters after Lucius' imprisonment," Dumbledore says as he reaches out and sets a plate of rolls in front of Draco. "Do try one. Molly is the best chef you will ever meet."

"Oh, Albus!"

How can they act so normal, like this is just another dinner? They know Draco is a gang member who has been tasked with killing their other dinner guest. Why are they being so polite instead of questioning him like mad?

"And you've been told to kill me," Dumbledore continues. "Quite a difficult task, I would say."

"I could do it here," Draco points out. "You're next to me, and I have a knife. What's stopping me?"

Dumbledore laughs, but it isn't a cruel sound. "My dear Mister Malfoy, I look at you, and I see many things," he answers. "I do not, however, see a murderer."

"If I help you, can you promise my mother will be safe?"

"You have my word."

Draco inhales sharply, trying to steady himself. "I can give you Tom Riddle."

xi. now

It is done.

Percy wipes the tattoo once more before taking a step back to admire his own work. The skull and serpent are gone. In their place is a dragon that wraps itself around Draco's arm.

Draco holds his arm out, grinning as he observes the final product. "It's perfect," he says.

Percy nods. "It is."

The last few months have been a whirlwind. Once Draco set up Tom Riddle, the dominoes began to fall. Next came Crouch and the Lestranges, four of the highest-ranked members of the gang. Slowly but surely, the rest were rounded up. A few sympathizers are still out there, but, for the most part, it is one less gang on the streets.

Now, it's over, and he can see a visible change in his boyfriend. Draco is happier, and it feels like things are looking up.

"Thank you," Draco says, kissing him quickly.

Percy grins and pulls Draco back, stealing a longer, deeper kiss. "Anything for you."

The worst is over now, and it feels like their lives have truly just begun.


End file.
